


stutter

by donutsandcoffee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, coffee shop AU, protective!best friend!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsandcoffee/pseuds/donutsandcoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Crowley walked out of the coffee shop he promised himself to never, ever go back to Gabriel’s place and to never associate himself with that group of uncultured swine again.</p><p>And then he took a sip of Castiel’s coffee.</p><p>The rest, as they say, is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stutter

**Author's Note:**

> because every pairing needs a coffee shop au

 

Fergus Crowley enters _Heaven’s Coffee_ the way he always does every morning: briskly, with a purpose, like he doesn’t want to be caught dead visiting the unassuming café. He makes a point to cringe dramatically at the sound of the bells ringing as he pushes the door open, and he is greeted with a frown from the grumpiest barista in the whole universe.

He smiles, just to see the frown deepens. 

“Having a marvelous start for your day, I see,” he says by way of greeting, sarcasm dripping in every syllable.

“Crowley,” the barista acknowledges him. “I was, actually, until you showed up.”

“Don’t flatter me so early in the morning,” Crowley masterfully deflects the comment, “and I know how wonderful of a company I am, but I’m unfortunately not here for small talk. So chop chop, get going with the usual, Castiel, if you have even some sense of professionalism left.” 

The barista—Castiel—wears the expression of a man who swallows his first five insults before finally settling with a long-suffering sigh.

There’s a moment of peaceful silence as Castiel makes Crowley’s usual—drip brew, with double shots of espresso—and pours it into a paper cup with practiced ease. Castiel then puts the cup into a heat sleeve, a slice of brownie into a brown paper bag and hands them both to Crowley.

“That would be $7.20,” Castiel says, “and I would like to be paid in money that isn’t forcefully extorted from someone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t pay you today, then,” Crowley says drily. 

“Sometimes I entertain the possibility that you are the King of Hell himself.” 

“Because _you_ are such an angel to your customers, Mr. Grumpy Face,” Crowley retorts as they make the cash-to-food exchange. “You can have this ten-dollar note, I suppose. That was part of a bribe; no forceful takeover involved.”

“And the theory becomes more and more plausible each day,” Castiel says, but Crowley isn’t paying him much attention anymore. The strong smell of caffeine assaults him as soon as he has a hold on Castiel’s work, and it is oh, so very _tempting._

Crowley always makes sure he drinks his coffee only when he is not within Castiel’s sight. He also almost always fails to do so. 

His traitorous brain decides that a sip wouldn’t hurt, and takes one, and. Oh. God. Crowley isn’t really big on the whole faith and religion thing, but here, trapped inside a nondescript paper cup in his right hand, is the proof that _god himself exists_. Crowley groans approvingly, taking another sip before realizing that he is still inside the coffee shop and looks up.

Crowley’s thoughts on Castiel’s coffee must have been written all over Crowley’s face, because there’s a glint in Castiel’s eyes that wasn’t there before, the end of his lips tugging upwards into a half-smirk that Crowley would’ve missed if he weren’t looking for it. Castiel is already attending another customer, eyes aren’t even on Crowley, but he is practically _radiating_ with a sense of accomplishment. 

Bloody hell, Castiel looks insufferably _smug_.

If Crowley were a lesser man, he would’ve stomped off the coffee shop; but he is not a Neanderthal, or worse, Castiel, so he gracefully exits the coffee shop instead and doesn’t slow down until the shop disappears from his sight.

For those of you not keeping up, yes, Crowley absolutely _loathes_ Castiel.

It is, then, such a shame that he is in love with Castiel’s coffee. 

-

But Crowley is getting ahead of himself.

-

It started almost a year ago, with Crowley narrowing his eyes at the interior of the newly established _Heaven’s Coffee._ The place had the whole traditional interior thing going on, wooden furniture illuminated by dimmed lighting and an electric fireplace at the corner near the counter. 

Most people would call it ‘warm and cozy’. Crowley called it decrepit and ancient. 

Just like everything else about Gabriel is.

Speaking of. Gabriel was nowhere in sight, which was extremely rude of him, considering he was the one who had invited Crowley to the opening day of his coffee shop. Crowley scoffed at the thought of its name; _Heaven’s Coffee_ was obviously the love child of Gabriel’s namesake and his impressive lack in subtle elegance. 

Instead of Gabriel, there was another man behind the counter with a hair so messy he would drive the nearest hairstylist to tears, and he only frowned at Crowley for a moment before going back to whatever he was doing behind the counter. Such professionalism.

“Is this how you greet your customer?” Crowley couldn’t help commenting after a moment, “not that I expected much from the lot of you, but this is a little too antagonistic, even for my standard.”

The guy looked up, bright blue eyes blinked in startled confusion. “Excuse me?” 

“So the demon has arrived,” Gabriel commented as he appeared from the back room. Well, about time, Crowley supposed.

Castiel tilted his head at Gabriel, before switching his considering gaze at Crowley. 

Gabriel barked a laugh. “Not _literally_ a demon, Cas.” He motioned to the space between them, “Crowley, this is my baby bro, Castiel. Cas, Crowley. We met during college.” 

Recognition passed Castiel’s face. “So this is the successful college friend you talked about earlier.” 

Gabriel’s scoff would be insulting, if Crowley didn’t share the sentiment. “That would be too strong of a word, actually.”

“’Successful’?” Castiel asked.

“’Friend’,” Gabriel clarified.

“Surprisingly, I agree with short stack here,” Crowley said, pointedly ignoring Gabriel’s protest at the nickname. He scanned his eyes through the menu before gesturing to Castiel.

“You, sex hair,” he said, and Castiel cringed at the nickname, much to Crowley’s delight. “There’s absolutely nothing impressive here. Any specialty? What have you got for me?” 

“Hydrogen Cyanide,” Castiel muttered under his breath, but he started on something for Crowley anyways, hands deftly working on the various appliances. Crowley hoped those appliances weren’t rusty, but remembering Gabriel’s room in their college dorm, he unfortunately wouldn’t put it past Gabriel.

When Castiel was done, he handed Crowley the cup. “I would offer you a heat sleeve, but I’ve been told the temperature in hell is much higher than this coffee’s.”

“Very funny. Did Gabriel tell you to insult your customers too?”

“Only the rude ones. Your first cup is on the house,” Castiel replied smoothly, and before Crowley could get the last words, walked back to the counter to greet a new customer. 

For once, Crowley was dumbfounded. 

Castiel was… _unbelievable_.  Crowley had expected a certain amount of annoyance that normally entails when one interacts with Gabriel, but he didn’t expect _Castiel_. The man was a hundred forty pounds of arrogance with a fifteen-feet pole up his ass, and he got under Crowley’s skin faster than a good deal gone wrong. 

As Crowley walked out of the coffee shop he promised himself to never, ever go back to Gabriel’s place and to never associate himself with that group of uncultured swine again. 

And then he took a sip of Castiel’s coffee.

The rest, as they say, is history.

 

-

Crowley never particularly likes Michael, but he has to admit that the man is dedicated to his job.

Ever since he grudgingly added Heaven’s Coffee to his routine, Crowley always arrives at his office by seven instead of six-thirty—which is still impressive by a normal person’s standard, mind you—and walks past Michael’s office on the way to his.

By that time, without fail, Michael is already at his second stack of paperwork.

 _Are you even human_ , Crowley doesn’t say, because he prefers his colleagues not to think that they can start a casual conversation with him. Or worse—Crowley shudders at the thought— _joke_ with him. He scours through his own stacks of paperwork throughout the rest of the day in blessed silence, only stopping for a quick lunch, and before he knows it, it’s already six p.m.

He walks past Michael’s office on the way out, and he sees that the other man is still there, hunched over his computer and regarding it with the same intensity a preacher would the Word of God.

Crowley thinks one day they are going to find Michael dead in his office from lack of food and sleep, hands still holding onto a pen and a paper, and nobody is going to be surprised.

He’d rather not be part of any homicide investigation anytime soon, though, so he cranes his neck into Michael’s office and asks, “Rough deal?”

Michael sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in a rare sign of defeat. “Complicated. You know Naomi Milton?”

 _Control freak, ambitious old hag_ , Crowley doesn’t say. He does say, “CEO of Milton Holdings.” 

Michael nods. “She has this…” he makes a vague hand gesture, “ten-year plan. That’s how she referred to it, at least. Control the city’s market, a couple of new shopping malls under her wings.” 

“So she’s looking for land, and we find it for her. The usual.”

“Except she’s not _looking_ for land,” Michael explains. “She has already _found_ one. And she wants it.”

Everything starts to click into place. “She wants someone else’s property,” Crowley says, “and she wants us to do some legal maneuvering." 

Michael nods gravely, and Crowley now understands the hard, worry lines that are etched on Michael’s feature. 

Michael has always been… morally upright, to put it generously. Church-goer, law-abiding citizen, the whole package. Asking Michael to wrestle for some loopholes in the judicial system is comparable to asking him to commit a large scale genocide.

Despite the moral concerns, though, Milton Holdings isn’t really a party you want to turn down. It also never hurts to be on their good sides, and Crowley prides himself on his flexible moral standards, so he offers, “How about I’ll take the case for you.” 

For the first time since the start of their conversation, Michael looks away from his computer screen and stares at Crowley with hopeful eyes. “You would?” 

“Why not? It’s good on my resume, and you can spare everyone the existential crisis over the morality of our job. For now.”

Michael considers the argument.

“Do we have a deal?” Crowley asks, and it doesn’t take long for Michael to nod.

“I’ll send in the paperwork to your desk first thing in the morning,” Michael says gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley dismisses with a wave of his hand. When Michael doesn’t seem like he’s going to pack up anytime soon, he can’t help saying, “You know, with the Milton Case out of your hand, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to work over time.”

Michael shrugs. “It’s okay, I like it here,” he says, then adds, “it’s certainly better than the situation at home.”

Yeah. Crowley is not touching that with a ten-feet pole. He cares if he finds Michael dead in his office the next day, but only because he doesn’t like talking to police officers. He doesn’t care about Michael  _that_ much.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says smoothly, and walks out of the building.

 

-

The worst thing about Heaven’s Coffee is that it’s located on the route he takes every day to work, so it is almost physically impossible not to grab a cup on the way. It also means that he will have to walk past it at least twice a day, and sure enough, Crowley finds himself stopping at the sidewalk beside the shop.

He contemplates going in for a quick hot drink to battle the chilly evening, but he hesitates when he sees the man behind the counter, blonde and tall and _not Castiel._  

Not that it should be unexpected; Castiel only takes morning shifts, his evenings occupied with what Gabriel termed as ‘kitchen experiments’ and Castiel remembers as 'oh God Gabriel you don't put _that_ in a coffee'. His family always wants him to get a degree, something respectable like law or accountancy, but Castiel’s dream has never strayed far from the coffee shop and he can be one stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

Crowley knows all these because he gleans them from their daily morning banter. Not that he ever _asked_ about Castiel’s personal life.

Either way, it feels almost _wrong_ to enter those doors and be greeted by Tall and Blond Teen Hearthrob here instead of the usual grouchy Castiel, so Crowley starts walking again, away from the shop. 

He doesn’t think that this means he enjoys his interaction with Castiel. Sure, his life can get rather boring—real estate job is never something Crowley dreamed of, though he _is_ good at it, good at making people agree to deals, and he makes a lot of money out of it. Sure, Castiel has a really interesting sense of humor, just the right amount of sarcasm and straightforwardness to be amusing and not annoying. 

He doesn’t think what this train of thoughts can possibly _mean_.

He doesn’t think much about it at all.

-

Crowley does get to see grouchy Castiel the next morning, but for once, it’s a different brand of grouchiness. Castiel’s hair is even more disheveled than usual—which is saying a _lot_ , considering Castiel’s hair seems to be in a civil war on a daily basis—and there are weary, dark lines gathered around his eyes. 

“The sex appeal is strong today,” he says, trying to get a raise.

But Castiel simply blinks at him, eyes lacking their usual intensity, and his answer is a clipped, “Thank you.  Get to your order.”

The response caught Crowley off guard, and it is… unsettling, to say the least, that he is actually bothered by this.

You see, Crowley, in general, _doesn’t care_. He is of the view that humans are essentially just meatsuits for demons. There is no act of kindness that isn’t driven by the necessity for personal gain. His view in life has earned him a couple of nicknames; he has heard ‘heartless bastard’ thrown around a couple of times, occasionally switched with other adjectives like ‘cold-hearted’ and ‘uncaring’. Crowley approves all of them wholeheartedly.

So he surprises himself more than he does Castiel when he finds himself saying, “you know what, spill.” 

Castiel’s hand stops mid-air, right above the brown paper cups. “I’m sorry?”

“You may think the world revolves around you, but I am not repeating myself for you,” Crowley says, and then pauses, because what he’s going to do? It’s bloody _new_ , for him. His relationship with Castiel—his relationship with _anyone_ , really—tend to consist solely on sarcasm and coffee, and he used to be content with just that. Apparently, not anymore. 

It is all very disconcerting, really.

“Crowley,” Castiel tries, breaking the silence between them.

Crowley taps the counter table, feigning nonchalance. “You always look like shit,” Crowley starts, ignoring Castiel’s eye roll, “but you look shitter than even usual. _Spill_.” 

Castiel squints at him in suspicion. “Since when do you care?”

Crowley feels like something is lodged in his throat, and ignores it. It would’ve been his heart if he had one. “Oh, don’t get me wrong—I _don’t_ ,” he counters, “but this may possibly be the last push for you to finally poison my drink, so I won’t take any chances.” 

He gives his most judgmental look at the cup in Castiel’s hand just to further emphasize his point, but when he looks back at Castiel there’s a soft smile on the other man’s face.

“It’s… nothing of import,” Castiel says, shaking his head, but the small smile stays. “Gabriel and I, we… we aren’t exactly close with our family. I mean—no father wants to see their sons run a coffee shop, I believe.”

“And deprive mankind of your coffee? Nonsense,” Crowley says.

Castiel lets out an amused scoff at that. “My other brothers are very, ah, _faithful_ to my father. They disapprove anything our father disapproves, and that includes our career choice,” Castiel continues. “Our father seems to have given up on us, but not our brothers—we had three large fights in the past week alone, every time they visited. These fights must have finally taken their toll on me.” 

 _This_ is why Crowley does not usually do this whole... feelings-sharing talk. He knows fake courtesy—how to please a client, how to persuade someone to make a deal—but showing real concern is certainly nowhere near his forte. There’s silence as Castiel goes to make his drink.

When Castiel is finally done and places the cup on the counter, Crowley has thankfully worked up enough courage to say, “Well, who cares what your family thinks about you. Gabriel is useless, of course, that lot. But you? You’re _born_ to do this.” He gestures dramatically at the coffee cup for good measure. “I have it on good authority that your coffee is god’s gift to humanity.”

Castiel’s smile deepens. “I hope your good authority is a credible source, then.”

“Who the bloody hell do you think I am?” Crowley says, but there’s no venom in his voice, and Castiel’s shake his head again, the stupid smile still on his face. The air is light and easy between them, so easy that Crowley doesn’t realize he reaches for his cup at the same time as Castiel.

Their hands stumble into a peculiar almost-handshake, Crowley’s hand around the cup and Castiel’s around Crowley’s.

Crowley feels like his world suddenly stops spinning.

He should say something. He _ought_ to say something at this point, right? But he can't say a word, and he thinks, this is it, they are going to stay this way forever, Castiel’s hand on Crowley’s, and when the apocalypse comes and goes this is the position the gods are going to find them in.

But then Castiel sucks in a breath and Crowley looks up, locking his eyes with Castiel’s.

Castiel squeezes Crowley’s hand for a second,  and Crowley feels like his heart is being squeezed, too.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, almost quiet, almost _reverent_ , “Crowley."

Maybe he does have a heart after all.

 

-

When he reaches his office it is to a stack of unfamiliar-looking black file, and the whole encounter with Castiel earlier knocked him off his feet so far that it took him five full minutes before realizing it’s the Milton Case File from Michael.

He opens the file and skims through it, and sure enough, it isn’t anything above their pay grade. Ridiculous and demanding, certainly—you wouldn’t expect less from Naomi Milton, whose name you would find in an encyclopedia under ‘ridiculous’ and ‘demanding’—but plausible, nonetheless.

It is exactly as Michael said, with more details: Milton wants seven hectares of land along Chancery Road for a new shopping mall. Problem is, there _aren’t_ any free seven hectares of land; there is already an assorted collection of restaurants and houses along the road. Crowley remembers walking past at least two boutiques and a restaurant on the way to work.

Usually money would do the trick just fine, and Milton Holdings isn’t exactly short of that. The problem starts with the nostalgic fools who think their building worth more than it is just because of—Crowley inwardly sneers at the incoming word— _memories_.

That’s where people like Crowley comes into the equation.

It isn’t as complicated as it seems. The law is as incredulous as the procedural TV Shows would have you believe; there is a stupidly long list of petty laws you have to follow when you own an establishment, and chances are you actually break one or two or, that one wonderful time with that smarmy Zachariah, _twenty-three_. Maybe the fences are too high, or you’re not supposed to have that many windows. Safety reasons, you see.  _Think of the kids._

Tedious, yes. Difficult—not particularly.

He skims through the list of individuals and companies he needs to haggle. Michael has done a good job, neat small notes around the printed data on how much each building owner wants, and a short list of the morons who refuse to budge. It seems like a simple job, so far.

And then Crowley sees a single address that starkly changes the job difficulty.

Chancery Road 23.

_Heaven’s Coffee._

Of. Bloody. Course. How did it not cross his mind earlier? He walks past Chancery every day, for goodness sake—he has scoffed at the words _Heaven's Coffee, Chancery Road 23_ more times than he could count, and now he will have to find a way to, forcefully, move the shop elsewhere.

Move _Castiel_ elsewhere.

He needs more caffeine in his system for this.

 

-

It’s not that he thinks Heaven’s Coffee isn’t popular; it’s just that he is so used to by the quiet atmosphere of the almost empty cafe in the morning, it is jarring to see the place bustling with people.

Castiel looks halfway between surprised and amused when he sees Crowley standing in a queue, for once.

“Let’s establish this fact for everyone’s peace of mind—I don’t miss you,” Crowley says as soon as he reaches the counter, “I miss your coffee. Now get me the usual and your best lunch meal.”

“I wouldn’t even dream otherwise,” Castiel says, tone edging on mocking, and bloody hell, it just goes to show how distressed Crowley is that the only thing he can think of is, _I’m going to miss this._

He does not wear sentimentality well.

His order comes around in a couple of minutes and instead of walking back to his counter, Castiel takes the seat across Crowley’s table. Crowley raises his eyebrow, but does not say anything, opting to have a bite of his lasagna instead. Castiel is, thankfully, as good a chef as he is a barista.

“It’s one past twelve—my shift ended a minute ago,” Castiel answers the unvoiced question, “and you look like you could use some company.”

Crowley is not sure he likes hearing those words being said in that order. “And _you_ sound like you are out of your mind. I do not need a _company_.”

“In some beliefs, demons originate from humans, and thus are still capable of feeling lonely.”

“Have anyone ever told you you’re hilarious? You’re _hilarious._ ”

Crowley’s voice must have taken a certain edge to it, because Castiel balks and straightens up. “I know I have not been… amicable, most of the time,” he says, tentative, “but we have known each other for almost a year now and… Crowley, you are a friend.”

Crowley doesn’t know if he likes hearing those words, either.

“So perhaps, if there’s something I can help,” Castiel offers.

This is ridiculous and irrational on so many different levels, and if you ask Crowley ten years from now, his future self will still not know what possesses him to confide, “Just some tedious jobs ahead. It’s nothing complicated—the case simply requires meticulous treatment, which can be very taxing.”

Castiel perks up at that. “I am good with details,” he says.

Crowley knows where this is going. “No, no, _no_ ,” he quickly says, “you do realize this is my _job_ you’re trying to help with. We are talking about sensitive, _classified_ data of my company here.”

“Then you can keep those parts undisclosed,” Castiel says reasonably. “I can stick with the details, the parts you would make your secretary do if you had one.”

 _How do you know I don’t have a secretary, do I really look that much of an antisocial_ , Crowley wants to say, but Castiel is right. He doesn’t have a secretary because he refuses to have one, thinking that they can’t be trusted, and the idea of having Castiel around longer than five minutes without a wooden counter between them is, well, is not _entirely_ unpleasant.

Crowley _can_ keep the important parts under the wraps, he supposes. He has managed to keep his working life and his meager personal life separate all this time; keeping it up should not be a problem.

Not to mention this can be a good opportunity to investigate Heaven’s Coffee without raising suspicion. If he requests Castiel’s help, it would be natural to go in and out of Heaven’s Coffee regularly, which means a free pass to inspect its interiors and the possible violations of law.

And before his rational mind can stop him, Crowley says, “Let me make you an offer.”

 

-

_What have I done_ , Crowley thinks later on when he is in the privacy of his own home, and he continues to curse at himself throughout the rest of the evening, his dog Growley barking confusedly at him.

 

-

Their arrangement turns out to work well. _Alarmingly_ well.

They meet up after Castiel’s shift ends in Heaven’s Coffee every day, now. Crowley gets some help, and in turn Castiel is considered to hold a part time job in the company Crowley is working in, something that he can use to placate his brothers if they question Castiel’s career choice again in the near future.

Crowley makes sure Castiel does not know anything about the Milton Case, and he is instead presented with a sundry of local and national laws as Crowley deals with the more sensitive details. In just a day, Castiel has devised a system to arrange the laws in easy-to-search categories and is now working on to actually categorize these laws.

Castiel talks. Castiel talks about his new recipe, about Gabriel’s probably-lethal experiments in their kitchen, about the little improvements they are making on Heaven’s Coffee. He talks about his childhood spent reading in his room, about his best friend he loves and hates equally for constantly pulling on his legs, about his dreams for the future. He rarely talks about his family, if at all, which Crowley does not have a problem with.

What surprises Crowley most is that he actually _talks back_. He talks about his job, about the ridiculous rumor mills in his office, about his daily activities. He talks about how he’s practically married to his job, and how he is completely fine with it. He finds himself talking about _personal_ things, things he never thought he would ever share with anybody.

And it feels, scarily, _good_.

 _Castiel_ is good. He is quirky and honest and startlingly hilarious, and unlike most people Crowley interacts with, he does not talk when there is no need to and does not see the point in sugarcoating his words. Castiel’s company is _refreshing_ , and Crowley would like to have him around.

Would like to have _Heaven’s Coffee_ around.

Crowley thinks about his job, the little empire of a career he has painstakingly built throughout the years, the casual indifference to trivial things like _compassion_ he used to have—used to, _used to_ —in order to protect it.

Crowley thinks of Castiel, the way he does not laugh so much as his eyes crinkle, his deadpan delivery on everything from today’s weather to the news of Gabriel breaking his leg, and the way he gives, gives and _gives_ and never once takes.

Crowley does not pray, but he breathes, _God help me_ , every night, to his pillow. _Don’t ever make me choose._

 

-

In an alternate universe somewhere, Crowley’s office life must have its own television show. It has a solid cast, after all.

There’s Michael, who can best be described as ‘an exemplary employee of the month all bosses would love’ on good days and ‘an overworked single mother during tax payment day’ on bad ones. There’s Ruby, the sleazy, promiscuous secretary who Crowley is convinced secretly runs a successful drug trade on the side.

And then there’s Lucas Orion Novak.

Going by ‘Luke’ among his friends and ‘Lucifer’ behind his back, Luke is that one pretty face in the office whom no one ever sees do anything, but for some strange reason is _there._ He is an impossible combination of untrustworthiness and _charm,_ has a sizable following in the company, and Crowley is wary of him.

In short, if Crowley was a demon like most people claim, Luke would be, well, _Lucifer._

As if being summoned, Luke strides into Crowley’s office without knocking.

“So, I heard Michael gave you the Milton Case,” Luke says, clearly aiming for nonchalance, but Crowley can hear the burning _jealousy_ pressed between the syllables. It is as if Michael’s choice to give the case to Crowley instead of Luke is a stab in the back by a close family member.

That analogy is actually close to to the truth. Has he mentioned that Luke is Michael’s brother?

It is _that_ fucked up. Sitcom material, really.

“You heard right,” Crowley says, ignoring Luke’s tone. He has vowed not to touch Michael’s family problem with a ten-feet pole, and he is eager to keep it that way.

“That’s a big thing, you know,” Luke says slowly, like Crowley is a particularly slow kid in the classroom. “Milton is one of our biggest clients, if not _the_ biggest. You really shouldn’t screw this up.”

Crowley inwardly sighs. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember asking you for advice.” 

Luke holds up his hands placatingly. “I’m just saying,” he says, “if you ever need help, I’m here. Especially considering the… possible conflict of interests you might be having.”

Crowley jerks his head up at that. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean,” Luke says with a hint of a smirk, “considering your _boyfriend_ works at the coffee shop at Chancery.”

Crowley is already at, “How do you know—” before recognizing Luke’s words as a _taunt_ , and says, evenly, “Cas is not my boyfriend.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Luke echoes the nickname mockingly.

“Now if you are done trying to start an office drama, I suggest you leave,” Crowley says, almost growling his words, and that thankfully sends Luke and his stupid smirk away from his sight.

It is only after his office is empty again that it sinks in that _Luke knows_. Crowley can hear his heart hammering against his ribcage and feels like his world is tilted sideways, his brain frantically jumps from, _Luke knows_ , to, _everyone knows_ , to, _what should I do._ As much as he hates it, Luke was right—a deal with Milton Holdings isn’t exactly something you can flub, and he has to make a choice. Soon.

Castiel, or his job. 

It would not have been as difficult a few months ago, but a few months ago Castiel didn’t sit across the table every day, a small smile on his face, a stupid joke on the tip of their tongues, their knees almost touching under the table.

 

-

Crowley decides an encounter with Luke demands an extra dose of caffeine, so he leaves his office even earlier than usual because he is not drinking a coffee not made by Castiel and therefore needs to catch him during his shift.

He ends up at Heaven’s Coffee a couple of minutes before the end of Castiel’s shift, and he catches Castiel standing at the back door, talking to another man whom Crowley recognizes as Tall and Blond Teen Hearthrob.

“Man, I owe you so much,” Tall and Blonde says, green eyes wide and panicked, “I—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel quickly cuts him, “just _go_. I’ll hold all the customers off for you today.”

Relief bleeds through Tall and Blonde’s— _Dean’s_ —face, and then Dean _smiles_ , warm and soft and reserved, and Crowley feels like he is intruding on something private.

 _The childhood best friend_ , Crowley’s brain helpfully connects the dots between the stories Castiel has been telling him and the scene before his eyes.

“Thanks,” Dean says, almost a whisper, and he puts his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and it _lingers_. “ _Cas_.”

Castiel smiles back, and Crowley suddenly feels like his chest is full of broken glass.

 

-

Castiel catches him later on inside the cafe with apologies tumbling halfway out of his mouth.

Crowley sandwiches the, “Don’t mention it,” between Castiel’s, _my friend’s brother is expecting, I mean, his brother’s_ wife _is expecting_ , and, _I need to cover his shift_ , or something along the lines with that, whatever, Crowley is not really listening because he does not care.

When Castiel continues to apologize, Crowley snaps, “Why are you even fussing about me?” His eyes sweep across the room, packed with patrons. “Don’t _you_ have a long day ahead of you?”

Castiel stiffens, nods, and walks briskly to the back room. It is not the first time Crowley feels like he is the biggest asshole in the room, but it is the first time he actually feels _bad_ about it.

He takes the table he always takes with Castiel recently, the one at the corner near the electric fireplace. He purposely sits so his back is facing the counter, and he can still feel Castiel’s concerned eyes on him. That _fool_. Crowley does his best to ignore him, trying to concentrate on his work instead, but the Milton Case only sends his thoughts back to Castiel and Heaven’s Coffee again.

Crowley hates this, how everything gets under his skin nowadays. He wants to be angry at Castiel for making his job difficult, but it’s not like Castiel is Crowley’s clingy boyfriend who begs Crowley to leave his job for him. Hell, Castiel isn’t even Crowley’s _anything._

A familiar hand places a cup of coffee on his table.

“I did not order this,” he says, not bothering to look at the owner of the hand. He stands up from his seat and starts to pack his things. “You’re busy. Stop getting so worked up over me, grandma, get back to work.”

“I am not your grandmother and I would make time. For you.”

“Don’t.”

“Crowley,” Castiel says, uneasy, _concerned_ , and Crowley suddenly feels like breaking something because Castiel is not Crowley’s anything and he is probably dating bloody _Dean_ and he is _ruining Crowley’s life_.

But worst of all, Castiel still cares about Crowley, always does, and _Crowley_ is still about to ruin _Castiel’s_ life.

“‘Make time for you’,” he repeats derisively before he can stop himself, “Do you—do you actually think we are—friends? Do you actually think you _know_ me?”

Castiel balks at the sudden outburst. “I—” he says, pauses. “I would like to think so. Yes.”

“Well you are absolutely _wrong_ ,” Crowley lashes, “because you may know your Dean inside out but don’t ever think you know a single thing about me.”

Castiel flinches. “What does this have to do with Dean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I insult your boyfriend?”

“Crowley—” Castiel says, and he sounds downright frustrated now. “Dean is just a _friend_.”

“So now he’s _just a friend_ ,” Crowley hears himself saying, and he can’t stop himself, he can’t. “Whatever happened to ‘childhood bestest friend’?”

“I never said that,” Castiel says, and he is glaring at Crowley now as he walks into Crowley’s personal space. “And while Dean is a dearest friend of mine, so are _you_.”

“You are absolutely disgusting,” he says, because he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve those words, doesn’t deserve the fierce devotion in Castiel’s eyes. “You don’t know me, you don’t know what I do.”

“Crowley.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of doing.” _You don’t know what I am going to do._

“I _do_ ,” Castiel says, persistent, and how he does not, how he _does not_. Crowley wishes he never had his heart back just to see it break. “And I don’t care.”

“You should,” Crowley says, and pushes Castiel aside to walk out of the coffee shop. Castiel doesn’t call out for him and he does not look back.

He takes a different route to work the next day.

-

Crowley walks into Michael’s office to give him the Milton Case back. He cannot do it, no matter how much he convinces himself this past week that he _can_ , that Castiel is no longer in the equation, and sure as hell is not giving the case to Luke.

He finds Michael’s office to be empty.

He does not know what he expected. He notices that Michael hasn’t been overworking himself his past few days, as if he finally has incentive to come home, and Crowley should be indifferent to this. It isn’t like it’s going to make much of a difference; Crowley can find him the next morning.

But instead he feels the emptiness of Michael’s office swallow him, and for the first time in a long time, Crowley feels lonely.

 -

It is snowing when Crowley walks out of his office building, and it is probably the stress that leads him not to think where he is going and let his legs take him home. One week of using the new route has nothing on years of using Chancery Road route, and Crowley finds himself on a road across Heaven’s Coffee.

“Fuck,” he spits, almost ready to turn back and use another road when he sees a familiar figure.

“ _Fergus Crowley_ ,” the figure shouts and Crowley freezes. “Jesus, you better not— you better not fucking run away—” the figure says as he runs across the street towards Crowley, and for some unexplainable reason Crowley is rooted on the ground until they are standing mere inches from one another.

“ _You_ ,” Dean says, and he looks nothing short of _livid._

“On the long list of people I don’t plan to interact with, you are pretty stinking high on the list, Winchester,” Crowley calmly says, masking the multitudes of emotions he feels as he is reminded of Castiel.

“Fuck,” Dean curses and runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, you are one fucking pompous bastard.”

“Heard that before. Tell me something new.”

“I can’t believe Cas is in love with a guy like _you_ , you fucking coward,” Dean says with an accusing tone, and he looks at Crowley like he’s waiting for a reasonable response. 

There’s a pause.

“You’ve _seriously_ got nothing to say to that, man?” Dean grits out, and Crowley feels justifiably indignant. That was a _lot_ to take in. Crowley thinks his brain needs significantly more time to process those words.

“You are mistaken, ” Crowley finally says. He is a professional marketer, and he is very fluent with his arguments. “Cas and I, we are not. That.” Very fluent.

“And a stork just delivered me to Earth yesterday,” Dean retorts. “Look, you go to work at six in the morning and go home at six fifteen p.m. It takes approximately thirteen minutes to walk from your office building to our shop, so you will walk past our store at exactly six twenty eight. You sometimes go to work on Saturdays and never on Sundays, when you walk your dog in the morning instead of the evening.”

Crowley opens his mouth as Dean takes a deep breath, but Dean is still faster. “You are an only child in your family, you grew up in London before moving here and you never had a particular dream job as long as it makes you money. You think you are good with clients but bad with people.

“And every time you walk past our store at six fucking twenty eight, Cas, my best friend Cas whom I can read like a goddamn book, always makes lovestruck, doe-eyes at you,” Dean finishes. “Dude, I know more about you than I ever want to because Cas can’t fucking stop talking about you.”

“I,” Crowley says, but for once, he has no smart comeback to that.

“Cas is really awful at making his feelings known, I know,” Dean says, a small smile making his way to his face. “But he really cares, you know? So please go talk to him and sort everything out, or so help me.” A pause. “Unless you do not feel the same, to which I say please go the fuck away and never come back ever again.”

Crowley thinks of Castiel, and he says, “I think, I think I need to do something.”

“You do that,” Dean agrees, but Crowley has already pushed past him and walks into Heaven’s Coffee.

-

Castiel drops his tray when he sees Crowley enter the coffee shop.

The tray clatters loudly on the wooden floor, and the entire cafe seems to be paralyzed, heads shot up and turned to see Castiel staring at Crowley. It is all very dramatic, really, and Crowley is always fond of theatrics, so all is well.

“Can I talk to you for a second,” Crowley says. Castiel nods, eager, and Crowley promptly takes a hold of Castiel’s wrist and drags him towards the back door. Gabriel narrows his eyes at the two of them as he cleans up Castiel’s mess, but doesn’t say anything, which is impressive by Gabriel’s standard. Crowley wonders what Castiel has been telling Gabriel about him.

The cold wind assaults them as soon as they are outside again, but the snow has mercifully stopped.

Castiel stares at him, waiting.

“So,” Crowley starts. Pauses. Continues, hesitant, “Your friend just talked to me.”

Castiel at least has the decency to look embarrassed about it. “I apologize,” he says, almost mumbling, “he does have a tendency to be quite… rash.”

“I can’t believe I am saying this, but he was right,” Crowley admits. “I am a coward.”

“I would definitely disagree with that claim—”

“Cas,” Crowley says, “there is something I need to tell you,” and then he tells Castiel everything about the Milton Case, about the Chancery Road plan, about the fact that he, essentially, has been making use of Castiel’s kindness and friendship. He tells him everything, and as he talks, he thinks, _this is it. He will never love me again, and I have no one to blame but myself._

But in wake of this groundbreaking revelation, Castiel simply nods and says, “I know.”

“So I completely understand if you are unwilling to—” Crowley backtracks when Castiel’s words finally sink in. “Wait. Have you even been listening?”

Castiel frowns, like he would like to glare at Crowley but can’t find the courage to look at the man in the eye. “Yes, of course. It would be extremely rude of me not to do so.”

Crowley is again at a loss of words. He has been in this predicament a lot lately, whenever Castiel is involved. “What,” he says, “do you mean by you knew.”

For the first time since the conversation started, Castiel looks at him in the eye, and _god_ , he looks miserable, like a kicked puppy. Castiel asks, “Crowley, do you know my last name?”

Crowley seriously thinks that Castiel hasn’t been listening. “What does this even have to do with—” _with everything_ , he wants to finish, but Castiel looks at him, persistent, so Crowley says, “all right, thank you for the vote of confidence. I have known you for a year now, of course I knew—”

_Crowley, this is my baby bro, Castiel. Cas, Crowley. We met during college._

“It’s the same as Gabriel’s—”

_Hel-lo, new roommate! The name’s Gabriel, Gabe, whatever, and I know, who in the world has the name Gabriel, but what can I say, I’ve always looked like an angel._

The rest of Crowley’s sentence dies in his lips.

“Well, color me surprised,” he breathes. “I have no bloody idea.”

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, before admitting, “Novak. My last name is Novak,” and suddenly everything clicks into place.

Michael’s fervent refusal to handle the Milton Case, Luke’s knowledge on his and Castiel’s arrangement, Castiel's understanding on Crowley's lack of secretary. Castiel’s family problem that started at the same time Michael started working overtime, and when Crowley started giving Castiel’s advice to handle his family, Michael started going home earlier.

“Bloody hell, you are Michael and Luke’s brother,” Crowley says, and Castiel nods, and Crowley’s world is turned upside down, again.

“The fights I told you about,” Castiel explains, “It was about the building. Michael and Luke think it’s a sign that Gabriel and I should get a ‘real job’. Obviously, we disagree.”

“So when you found out the case was given to me, you offered to help me.”

“That was partly the reason,” Castiel confesses; looks away. “Sam—Dean’s brother—he’s a lawyer. He told me the only way I could evade the lawsuit would be to have full access to the case and the laws—through you.”

“The renovations,” Crowley suddenly remembers. Castiel kept talking about ‘little improvements’ on the shop; thicker glasses, more solid pillars. “Those are the changes you made to avoid charges I could have made.”

“I made a system,” Castiel says, and his cheeks are red in a way that Crowley suspects has nothing to do with the cold.

“You—” There’s a pause. Crowley is staring at Castiel, dumbfounded, bewildered. _Impressed_. “You were planning to _betray_ me.”

“I did no such thing,” Castiel quickly says, but he’s not exactly making a solid argument.

“And here I thought I was the devil one in this relationship,” Crowley says.

Castiel makes a frustrated sound as he looks torn between addressing the ‘devil’ part or the ‘relationship’ part of Crowley’s statement. He settles with a glare.

“But it is fascinating, really,” Crowley continues, and okay, maybe he is a little hurt. “I didn’t know you would go this far for your coffee shop.” _While I have chosen_ you _over my job_ , he doesn’t say, but the words are still there, hanging in the space between them.

“I—Gabriel and I have been offered a place,” Castiel says, carefully. “It’s a couple of blocks down the road. It’s larger, nearer to the main road, and the rent costs almost the same as the current one does.”

“And your point?”

“ _My point_ ,” Castiel says, “is that we could've just moved. Set up a new place. It is not too far, and we have enough regulars that we don’t think we are going to suffer, in terms of revenue.”

“But you claimed you didn't want to,” Crowley says, utterly perplexed. “Why?’

“Because we may not be losing customers,” Castiel says, and he sounds exasperated, like the answer should be obvious, “but you've only been visiting my shop because you happen to walk past it every day to work. I might be losing _you_.”

Crowley's bewildered stare meets Castiel’s unflinching one.

“Nobody has ever made so much effort for me,” Crowley says after a moment, soft, like a confession.

Castiel smiles sheepishly at that. “Nobody has ever appreciated my coffee as much as you do, either.”

“You are being serious.”

“I am.”

“We’ve been—” Crowley tries to resist the laughter that’s threatening to spill out, but he isn’t trying hard. “We’ve been complete _morons_.”

“The worst,” Castiel agrees solemnly, but his eyes are laughing as he says, “It is still possible to rectify that, though.”

“Castiel,” Crowley says, breathes, and lets go. “I’m going to kiss you.”

It is cold but Castiel’s lips are burning steel, and Crowley is on fire.

-

“I think this dog fucking hates me,” Dean says as he cautiously tiptoes around Crowley’s table and almost drops his tray when Growley barks at him again.

“You think correct,” Crowley agrees, and does not bother to pull the leash on Growley. “We are here for Castiel, by the way, so you should get going before my eyes hurt.”

Dean looks like he really wants to punch Crowley in the face, but would want his limbs to be free from feline-related bites more. As Crowley relishes in Dean’s expression, Castiel appears from the back door with Crowley’s coffee.

“Ah, finally, I’ve missed you so much,” Crowley says, and snatches his cup, “my coffee.”

Castiel huffs, but it is mostly amused. “I am starting to suspect you are dating me for my coffee.”

Crowley takes a sip and smirks. “If it weren’t illegal, I would _marry_ your coffee.”

“Where would I be without our nation's rational judicial system,” Castiel laments mockingly, and Crowley laughs.

It has been years since the Milton Case was even an issue— _three years, two months and three days_ , not that Crowley is keeping count—and down the block the new shopping mall has just celebrated its opening day. Neither Castiel nor Crowley could care less.

“Well,” Crowley says, “be thankful of the judicial system, because while the relationship between human and caffeinated beverage is still frowned upon, some things no longer are, at least in our state.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, and Crowley thinks it’s about time, anyways, before the bloody ring and its box burns a hole through his vest pocket. Spontaneous combustion is unlikely, but the box still feels heavy and scorching, and Crowley does not take his chances.

When Crowley takes the box out, Castiel smiles, and _smiles._

 

_-_

 

**Author's Note:**

> also posted [on tumblr](http://deqncas.tumblr.com/post/62786394099/stutter); title taken from a song by maroon 5
> 
> this fic is consciously influenced by two wonderful, way more quality fics and wouldn't be here if it weren't for those two, so it's only appropriate to rec them here:  
> • [Pity this Busy Monster](http://teh-helenables.livejournal.com/57555.html) by teh_helenables, which is the best Crowley/Cas fic ever written in this world. it has amazing Crowley characterization and every time I doubted mine, I would reread this story  
> • [Peace and Good Luck to All Men](http://archiveofourown.org/works/608365) by kismetjeska, from where a lot of Michael and Lucifer characterizations and headcanons come from. special mentions to Lucas 'Luke' Orion as Lucifer's human!au name
> 
> this fic is also the equivalent of me going down on my knees and begging you to _ship this pairing_ , so pleas e ship it thank [weeps on the floor]


End file.
